


And we all come crashing down

by cadoodle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Except Jackson is back, Gen, M/M, Marijuana, Post Nogitsune, Pre-Slash, Stiles gets hella turnt, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadoodle/pseuds/cadoodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't make good decisions post killer spirit fox. Going to Derek's is probably one of the better ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And we all come crashing down

“What are you doing here?” Is the first thing Derek snaps, half of the words out before his door even fully slides open, which, wow-

“Can you smell me through the brick?” Is the first thing Stiles says, and he would be pushing past the werewolf by now if he wasn’t 100 plus pounds of pure werewolf, because damn his head hurts, but that smelling trick, man-

“You’re off your meds.” Derek says flatly, arms crossed, and Stiles nods, then nods again because he isn’t sure if he nodded the first time or if his head is just lolling, threatening to roll off his shoulders past Derek’s legs and settle into his nice plush couch. Stiles likes to believe that’s why he’s here. Derek has a nice couch. Derek also has a good sense of smell, apparently.

“Can you smell the medicine? Or the not medicine? Or dude, do I-” He leans in a little too close, based on Derek’s grimace, but Derek’s pretty lucky he’s not just falling onto his face. “Do I smell _really_ bad?”

Derek pushes him away, but his hand stays on Stiles’ chest, which is good because Stiles is pretty sure Derek is the only thing keeping him upright. Oh, Derek is talking. 

“-one in the morning. You reek of...what are you looking at?” 

“Nothin’” Stiles mutters, even as he cranes his neck forward a little more, trying to catch a glimpse of the coveted couch. “Definitely not your couch.” Wait, what did he just say? Did he say couch or crotch? Man he hopes he said couch.

There’s silence from Derek, then Stiles is being manhandled inside. He sinks into the couch with a sigh. Must’ve been couch then. Wait, if Derek can smell him, can he smell the-

“Here.” Derek says, handing him a glass of water. When did his eyes close? Well who cares, they’re open now. Does Derek smell the-

“You stink of cheap beer.” Hmm. Guess so.

“It’s why I didn’t take the meds.” Stiles says, stretching his arms back. Wait, where did the water go? Oh, Derek is holding it. “Kind of fucked up without them, but better than mixing them with alcohol.”

“I’m willing to bet it’s more than the alcohol and the attention disorder that’s doing this to you.” Derek says, and his eyes are dark and his face scowly, and Stiles feels a spike of fear, which is weird because Derek doesn’t scare him very much, not anymore. He feels guilty, also, because he knows what Derek is talking about.

“Jackson said it would calm me down.” He shifts, wondering when it’s going to kick in because Jackson gave it to him at least a half hour ago, he knows because he walked all the way to Derek’s and that’s a good twenty minute walk sober, but with cheap beer and no meds he spent at least ten more inspecting the various road kill innards and making two wrong turns. And before that Jackson was shoving the pot brownie into his hand, telling him it was free if he ate it and fucked off -- and he was ready to fuck off but he wasn’t ready to go home so Derek’s place, it was Derek’s place, it was Derek’s place-

“Stiles!” He snaps out of it, and Derek’s eyebrows are less bunchy down and more bunchy up, that’s new. He wonders how many more minutes it’s been. Doesn’t seem like long, but it’s been long enough for Derek to put the water down on the table beside them and him to put on a porno because that is some pretty sick groaning going on-no wait.

Stiles is the one groaning.

“Stiles, are you gonna throw up?” No, no he’s not. He’s on a boat, well a couch anyway, in the middle of Derek’s ocean-living room, but he’s not going to throw up. He’s going to rock back and forth and let the waves crash around while he has a fucking panic attack because he doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this at all.

“Derek, I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.” Derek is saying now, and now his eyebrows are a straight line. But they shouldn’t be. They should be scowly and fierce because Stiles is going to die. Something is going to attack him. Can’t Derek _see_ that? Can’t Derek _see_ the danger?

“Derek it’s killing me. Derek. Derek.” He wants to cry big fat crocodile tears. He wants Derek to protect him. He’s going to die. Something is going to kill him. He feels like he’s rolling through the waves, each one cresting against him another spike of fear. He tries breathing huge gulps of air, tries to get his heart pumping and trigger the panic attack because he knows what that’s like, knows that anxiety, but he doesn’t know this. Doesn’t know this slow, all encompassing fear of everything, fear of the world, fear of the space, fear of his mouth, nose, ears-

He groans again, and the whole room creeks with him.

“Stiles.” Something is touching him, Something is Derek, and he’s scared of Derek too. Derek _scares_ him.

“I’m gonna die.” He murmurs. Derek is touching him. “Stop. Killing me.” Derek won’t stop touching him. “Stop being Derek. Bad wolf. Killing me.” He opens his eyes again, lazy, let’s them slide down so they’re only half open. All he sees is wolf, and he wants to scream. The scream crawls back down his throat and he heaves, heaves again but nothing comes out and everything is just so _scary-_  

He blinks and it’s morning. It wasn’t morning, not for a long while, he knows that, but now it’s morning. His head still hurts, now more than ever, and his throat feels raw and dry. The flat is quiet, save for a few slivers of sunlight peeking through the windows and _he is in Derek’s home._

“I fucked up.” He says to the flat, then coughs violently.

“Stay down.” A hand pushes gently on his chest and he collapses back onto the couch, resting his head against-that’s a pillow. There’s a pillow?

“I know it’ll be quite the challenge for you but try not to talk.” Derek says dryly. “I don’t even need to threaten you with throat-ripping, you’ll do it to yourself.” Stiles stares at him in disbelief as the werewolf heads into the kitchen. Did Derek make a joke? Is Derek joking? Has something very bad happened?

“Has there been another murder?” Stiles asks a little later, almost resigned. Derek has helped him prop himself up against the couch cushions and given him a glass of water. Surely this kindness is a precursor to some kind of horrible supernatural homicide that only Stiles’ super sleuthing can solve. The sooner Stiles soothes his throat the sooner he can get to cracking the case. Derek raises an eyebrow, still perched on the coffee table beside the couch, and Stiles’ certainties start to un-certain themselves.

“Your father isn’t busy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Derek says. “In fact, I imagine he’s at home, wondering where his son had disappeared to.” 

“I’m at Scott’s.” Stiles answers automatically, before he registers what Derek is actually saying. “No murder? No dead body? No super sleuth Stiles?” Derek gives him a look that can only be described as bewildered. At least his eyebrows are back to their regular bout of bunching.

“Drink the rest of the water. When you’re ready, I’ll take you home. Or to Scott’s.” Derek says, apparently opting to ignore him. He begins to get up, but Stiles is still confused.

“Wait, why? Why are you...?” He asks, but he’s not sure how to phrase it and his head has begun throbbing again. Derek gives him yet another of what Stiles now recognizes as Derek’s disbelief at how much idiocy can be contained in one human being. The man sits back down on the table and reaches across to Stiles’ hand, beginning the pain drain. Stiles sinks into the cushions a little bit more, eyes slipping closed.

“Did I throw up all over your living room?” He asks eventually, dreading the answer. He gets a snort in response.

“No. Not for lack of trying, though.” Derek snorts again. “Do you know nothing about marijuana?” Stiles stares at him blankly, and Derek sighs. “Well, you are seventeen.” He says, as if that explains everything.

Stiles snaps his wrist back, annoyed when the headache immediately returns, and annoyed by Derek’s reminder at how young Stiles is compared to him. He’s even more irritated by the fact that he’s not entirely sure _why_ he’s so irritated, except that he _is._ And maybe he has a little bit of an idea, especially as more of the shame filters in as he remembers what he did last night, what an idiotic little _shit_ he was-

“I thought you researched everything.” Derek says, and he’s not mocking or even disappointed, just curious. As if he earnestly expected Stiles to have been more responsible, more thoughtful, and he’s genuinely confused as to why he wasn’t. That makes it suck all the more.

“I didn’t plan on doing it.” Stiles admits reluctantly. He never had before, he’d seen no reason as to why it would be any different. But he’d been so _antsy_ the whole night, he hadn’t gone off his meds in a while, hadn’t drank since before the Nogitsune and he had just wanted to let loose for a bit, just _forget_ for a little...but he’d gotten rambly and panicky, starting conversations and then ending them on a whim, trailing off before picking up again and interrupting new threads of discussion with his own tangled weave and Jackson had given him the brownie, shoved it in his hands and told him to fuck off, and Lydia hadn’t spoken up for him, had just walked away as if they weren’t friends, as if all she could remember was how much of a fuck up he was, how much of a murderer and not Stiles the super sleuth at all but a miserable little worm that had never been worth her time and he’d eaten every last bite.

He gets so melodramatic when he’s hungover.

“Why’d you do it then?” Derek asks, because Derek can’t tune into the Stiles Self-Pity Station, all esteem issues, all the time. But Derek looks at him sometimes like he gets it anyway, like he knows a bit what it’s like to feel like a murderer, to feel like the lowest of the low, and maybe Stiles is trying to force empathy into Derek, trying to make Derek into as big of a mental case as he is right now, but if Derek continues to let Stiles sit here instead of kicking him out like he should’ve done last night, Stiles will continue to believe it. And Derek does. Continue. To sit there.

And when Stiles doesn’t answer, Derek reclines against the table instead, sliding his palms back and stopping just short of baring his neck. His hair is messed up, his stubble thick on his face. He hands the water glass back to Stiles and gestures for him to continue drinking.

“Weed doesn’t necessarily calm you down. It depends on the person. All reactions are different.” He explains. “It can also make you paranoid. Scared.” Stiles keeps drinking his water quietly.

“Edibles are especially dangerous because you don’t know how much weed is in them. Or if it was just weed. When you came here last night it hit you and you had a bad trip. You got scared and you felt out of control. It happens.” They both know it happens.

“You sure know a lot about the drug life. I always figured you to be more on the straight and narrow.” Stiles says after Derek is clearly done. Derek gives him an almost smile.

“I did live in New York City, you know.” He says. 

“I always wondered what you did there.” Stiles says, mock-thoughtfully. “I am ready to get up now.” He declares additionally, wiggling his toes carefully. When he does rise, the room spins and he sits back down.

“Whoa.”

“You might still feel a bit drunk.” Derek says, taking the glass to the kitchen. “That happens too. Try to stand up again when you don’t feel as lightheaded. We can get you a gatorade on the way back.” He calls through the doorway. Stiles grips the top of the couch and stands again, and the room eventually does stop spinning, but Stiles is tired. He wants to sink into the couch and sleep for another full day.

“Come on.” Derek says patiently when he comes back, spotting Stiles’ expression. It’s probably pretty self-loathing, and hopefully not at all teary. Stiles clings to the railing as he makes his way down the steps, and yes, he does still feel a bit drunk. By the time he’s sitting in the car, nausea has again settled deep in his stomach. He bites back a groan, and allows the car ride to sink into silence. Even his unfettered ADHD is nothing compared to his hangover.

It is only when he is getting out of the car--at Scott’s house, he has decided--that Derek finally speaks up.

“Why my house?” He asks. Stiles doesn’t want to tell the truth, but Derek’s got built in lie detectors. He could walk away, but doesn’t he owe Derek a little too much?

“I wanted you to yell at me.” He says, deciding to go for the abridged version of the truth. He’s not lying.

“For what?” Derek says. Stiles sighs and lets his head rest against the Camaro’s premium leather seats.

“I dunno.” He does know. “For being an idiot. For taking drugs from douches. For having a big ol’ pity party, guest of one.” For murdering a bunch of people then only thinking about himself and how bad he felt about it. He is getting uncomfortable again, just like last night, but before he can shut up one more truth is pops out of him. “I missed it.” God he hopes he said it and not you.

“That is really unhealthy.” Derek remarks flatly and Stiles doesn’t know who he startles more, Derek or himself when he starts laughing. It is ugly, high pitched and crackly, and it hurts his throat again and brings tears to his eyes. Derek is _joking_. It is _funny_. Stiles is very, very _tired._

“Do you know why I didn’t yell at you?” Derek asks. Stiles doesn’t want to know. Stiles already knows. Stiles doesn’t want to know. But Derek leans in anyway.

“I could never make you blame yourself more than you already do.” 

Stiles didn’t know that. But he did. He just didn’t know Derek knew it.

But maybe Derek doesn’t know it. Maybe Derek is working on a hunch. Maybe Derek knows a lot about self-blame and can recognize a fellow when he sees one. Either way, Stiles leans back. “Right-O.” He says, like a dork, and turns to press his face into the leather, away from Derek. He feels weak, and drunk, and tired. He takes a deep breath. The leather no longer has that new car smell, but it’s cool pressed against his cheek.

Derek doesn’t touch him, but he doesn’t boot him out of the car either. Instead he waits, silently, patiently, for Stiles to collect himself, or collect the pieces, anyway, and get out of the car. He waits for Stiles to make it to Scott’s door, waits for him to ring the doorbell of the door that Scott is already flinging open, relief sharp in his features as he throws his arms around Stiles and by the time Stiles turns around again Derek is gone.

Later, he warns himself against this, whatever it is. Derek is not a kindred spirit. Derek is not someone to have some drugged up bonding sess with at odd hours of the night. Derek is the freaky looking motherfucker that people would suspect of _doing_ the drugging, and Stiles was better off when he suspected that too. 

The point is, Derek’s got issues. So does Stiles. But their issues are worlds apart, despite the similar body count, and should be treated as such. Therefore, no more solace seeking.

He can do this alone anyway.

“Scoooottt, I want more waaaaterr.” He whines, and barely feels even a little satisfaction when his bffle groans from the kitchen. 

Yeah. He can do this alone.

He takes the water glass and gives a pitiful moan, grinning when Scott rolls his eyes at him and tells him it’s his own fault. Yeah, it is man, sorry. Too bad not all of us were maimed by Uncle Bad Touch and were henceforth granted magic anti-intoxication abilities.

Scott throws a pillow at his head and he shakes it off, shaking off the feeling of Derek’s fingers running through his hair and delicately down his throat, coming to tap at his collar bone in the dead of night.

Yeah. He can do this alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And that is why you don't take edibles. Do whatever you want substance wise, but beware edibles! Everything Stiles goes through while high/drunk is taken from real moments in my and my friends' lives. Except for the crippling PTSD, of course. Be safe and make smart choices!!
> 
> Come follow me and send me prompts at confessedlyfannish.tumblr.com


End file.
